JULES I stepped into the dim, heavy air of the detached garage, the heels of my boots clicking softly against the stained concrete floor. A split second later, Damon stepped right in behind me. With one swift, heavy jerk of his massive arm, he slammed the rolling garage door all the way down. The interior of the garage was mostly dark, save for the weak, flickering glow of a single yellow bulb dangling from a frayed black cord directly above the center of the space. The light cast shadows over the rows of metal toolboxes, spare motorcycle tires, and machinery parts lining the walls. Damon walked straight past me, his broad shoulder lightly brushing against mine as he headed toward a cluttered workbench in the far corner. He immediately began going through a plastic crate, sorting through metal wrenches and rusted club hardware, his large, tattooed hands moving with practiced efficiency. I stood there, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. My short, strapless l
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